


VIVA SWEET LOVE

by kazvl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: A meeting on the twelfth step.





	

VIVA SWEET LOVE

 

"You're having a relationship with my brother," said Sherlock - fortunately after Lestrade had set down the mugs of tea he had been carrying in from the kitchen. 

Lestrade straightened without haste, leaving his mug on the table top. "No," he said, after a moment's consideration. "I'm having sex with him. Hot, steamy, sweaty sex - as often as our work schedules permit."

Sherlock's face screwed up like a small child told to eat his greens. "Don't be revolting."

Lestrade propped one shoulder against the kitchen door jamb. "There's nothing revolting about sex between consenting equals." He tried not to remember just how long it had been.

"You imagine you're Mycroft's equal?"

Any lingering trace of good humour left Lestrade's face. "You believe I'm inferior to him?"

"Don't be more idiotic than usual. I meant the other way round - except for your respective IQs, of course. Leaving already? What did you want to see me about?"

"I didn't. You wanted to see me, remember?" prompted Lestrade, with admirable patience.

"Oh. Yes. I don't any more. An interesting case came up."

"Then why are you still here, conning me into making tea for you?"

"Waiting until John's surgery is over. We'll catch the 9.40 from Paddington. You can go now," Sherlock added, with a dismissive flourish of one hand.

Lestrade pushed himself away from the wall, stalked to the front door of 221B and found the self-control not to slam it shut behind him. Busy fastening his overcoat against the raw cold of the April day, he paused when he saw Mycroft standing near the top of the stairs.

"Do you want something?" Lestrade snapped, prickling with self-consciousness, and something else he had been pretending not to feel for some time.

Mycroft studied him with all the warmth of a mortician examining a new arrival, so what he said came as something of a shock. "'Hot, steamy, sweaty sex' sounds tremendously appealing. As it happens I'm free this evening. Would you care to dine first?"

Lestrade's poker face had already given up the ghost, that slightly roughened voice of Mycroft's going straight to his cock. "I'd rather have a takeaway afterwards," he said, when he could be certain he wouldn't choke on his own tongue.

"A takeaway it shall be. Shall we?" Mycroft gestured down the stairs.

"You don't want to see Sherlock?"

"I rarely want to see Sherlock. Besides, he's probably forgotten why he summoned me. Or not," Mycroft added a moment later, lazy anticipation set aside as his brain travelled back north.

It took Lestrade a second or so to catch up. "Sherlock's been playing Cupid? The world's gone mad."

"Quite possibly. Although in this instance I can only be grateful." Mycroft's tongue tip flicked over his bottom lip; he fiddled unnecessarily with his tie.

Reassured by those betraying sign of nerves because, except where Sherlock was concerned, Mycroft seemed devoid of them, Lestrade nodded. "Me, too."

"Shall we depart? Only I fear I'm in grave danger of having sex with you on this staircase, and I would hate to shock Mrs Hudson."

"She's at her sisters," said Lestrade absently, as with some deliberation, he joined Mycroft on the twelfth step, his heavy-lidded gaze never leaving Mycroft's mouth.

A moment later he had Mycroft pressed against the wall, one hand cupping his groin as they kissed with all the clumsy urgency of new lovers.

"Do I have to throw a bucket of cold water over you?" yelled Sherlock, from inside the flat a short time later.

His face buried against Mycroft's neck, soaking up the scent of him as he tried to control his breathing - a task not helped by the thrust of Mycroft's cock against him, let alone what his right hand was doing, Lestrade murmured: "Any objection to me groaning rhythmically?"

"Now, or later?" inquired Mycroft, most of his attention given to exploring Lestrade's arse.

"How about both?" said Lestrade with a wicked grin, just before he nudged forward, his breath stuttering as their erections brushed through layers of clothing.

Because it would have been a sin to ignore that parted mouth, Mycroft didn't bother with a verbal response.

 

Inside 221B, Sherlock began to play his violin - the loudest piece he could think of. When that failed he stalked off to his bedroom, dignity lost when he tripped over Watson's discarded pyjamas.


End file.
